


These are all just pipe dreams, don't you see?

by theroaringseas



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Prose Poem, originally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroaringseas/pseuds/theroaringseas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's introspection on how he could possibly admire Enjolras. It spans out to ten brief scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These are all just pipe dreams, don't you see?

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a prose poem I was going to post on tumblr, but it ended up this long so I'm sharing it on ao3. Also, I'm new to this so if anything is inaccurate, please treat me kindly.

I.

 

I’ve tried to theorize which autocrat in your life drove you back to the Enlightenment and why, in God’s name, they let those ideas seep under your skin and rage towards your mind. I _try_ to find these answers on days when all I hear in the background is your relentless voice screaming; riling people up with empty promises and dubious outcomes and time after time again, it is void, in vain, and I fail to find something akin to someone like you.

I never put much weight on your words either. Never because I had the faith that you’d rather be alive than dead like every other rational human being does. It’s not until the day of reckoning when I realize how wrong I was and how truly fucked up you actually were. You put your life on the line, pretending like the stars will remember you if not all those dead corpses you dragged to the gutter with you and your passion.  
  
Enjolras, you never told me you were willing to blaze your body a lit like a cigarette, climbing over the barracks, out in the open. A teasing target for a rifle.  
  
As apathetic as I am, it was damn near suicidal to haul myself on top of that broken dresser to grab the hem of your red wine jacket and drag you down to hell safe with me. Why am I the only sane witness to those doomed plans people call revolutionary? It’s all in vain.  
  
I tell you this and you bear with me the eye of real, measured vexation. I bite my lip hard when the sound of a shot fired rings onto and over our ears. That could’ve been you. I think, as I walk away feigning indifference, as though logic was still something you were capable of.

 

II.

 

Later I find my myself remaining by your side, close to you.

“Get your ass behind the barracks or _I swear_ I’ll walk over to their side.” I mutter in your ear at your contempt, your indignation, your madness. You shove me back and I almost stumble over my feet into the dust of our destruction. This is the aftermath of the most adamant display of your refusal to retreat and live _._ Out of all your pipe dream propositions, this, _this,_ by far had to be the one that got me finally labeling you non compos mentis.

And this aggravates you. In your veins the adrenaline runs ceaseless and your heart beats louder than war drums. I know it. I’ve felt it before, months ago, last night. I know you believe life is trivial; worth virtually nothing in “the great scheme of things.” You yell obscenities in the name of liberty and I still don’t quite understand why you’re ardent when you could just turn your back, drink, sleep, make love, and thrive off your grandfather’s fortune.

You could’ve ran away and forgotten all of this. Knowing you though, that’s not really living. No matter how steep the cliffs are, no matter how many mountain ranges lie between us to freedom, you'd take the gambit without hesitation. Again and again, walking on a tightrope saying simply faith will take you across, and if you fall, she will be there to catch you. So yes, I wish you’d take the easy road and stop being so goddamn ambitious.

(But you wouldn’t be you if you did.)

 

III.

 

Life’s too short, and you’re too young. You speak like a true revolutionist holding years of experience under his belt with the backing of the common man’s distaste for the monarchy. The men see that in you.

And I, the sceptic, the intoxicated philosopher, still can’t detach the image of teenage you spitting profanities and words of mutiny at your father from my memories. Leaning against my shoulder, sniveling in after he beat you senseless. Your face was ruined that day with purple bruises dotting along your left eye and cheek, and blood pouring out your nose. Ruined but not broken. You couldn’t open your darkened eyes but you managed to smear saltwater and red onto my dirty, cotton shirt swearing poetic justice.

Had that been anyone else and I would have distanced myself. Maybe, even, have saved myself too in the long run. That’s why it makes me scoff when you look at me the same way for the opposing reason; screaming at me as I threaten to give up all that I have to keep you here. I know how much you hate being indebt. It’s the only reason you’ll ever endure my presence. Resort to those terms of endearments I know so well if it makes you feel better: cynical, nihilist, the devil himself and I’ll laugh at your mock attempt to hurt me. I don’t care about this revolution you’ve stirred up by the pyre, I just don’t want to see you digging your own grave.

 

IV.

 

We are two sides of the same coin, two halves of one soul, you and I, stark different and all the more whole. You’d argue with that, wouldn’t you? Say something along the lines of, _“You’re wrong,”_ and proceed to scorn me. Perhaps call me a drunkard, a delusional ass (which is not entirely untrue.) You’d say we’re nothing alike. Knowing my pessimism and lack of initiative is disgusting in your eyes, it’s no wonder why you despise me now.

But to see you, eyes closed and deathly pale under white and scarlet sheets, will dampen the evening light and I know I’ll drown myself in liquor in order to let that constant nagging and face of yours out of my head. As comical as this may sound, I like you better alive and on my mouth. God knows how many times I wished to shut you up that way. This instance, for example.

 

V.

 

“You do not believe in _anything._ ” You snarl like you’ve been keeping that fragile ship bottled up and I feel the corner of my lip curling upwards. “You goddamn fucking _simpleton._ Fuck you, _fuck you,”_ prior eloquence gone, voice gone stone-cold, low and flat, staccato with a stressed syllable violently torn off at each word. _“Do you even know what that means?”_ This is a look I’ve never seen before: teeth baring, eyes rose-inflamed, thick blonde hair disheveled, a grimace of complete abhorrence, and I must be sick for wanting more of it. _“Is this a joke to you?_ You’d be throwing away your life for _no_ _cause_!” He won’t hear me if I try to explain myself. He won’t attempt to. His asinine, manic idealism won’t let him.

 _“I thought you were on my side.”_ You say harshly and order the others to restrain me, send me away locked in a cell to rot because you’re too sentimental to place me on death row.

 

VI.

 

In the dark cellar, I remember the day you first confessed that you don't how to love. You, a man at the prime of his youth and found yet so forlorn in the reflection of a lonely pond, typhas swaying in the breeze, light reflecting uncertainty. Of all the fears in the world, you were afraid of becoming the odd man out, a deviant amongst your men, and for the first time, not knowing what to speak of when the conversation turned to sex (which it did often in the bars you preached in.)  

Because men won’t follow a man who is inexperienced, you lay down flat against the grass, green flecked with gold, and eyes shut in reluctance. A pitiful telling, and it evaded me why you came to me until it dawned, like a revelation risen steadily from my drunken stupor. You turned your head, blue eyes focused and found sudden interest of the spider crawling across the wooden floor like you could conceal your countenance as time passed by.

For, like, twenty seconds.

 

VII.

 

Your hands lifted to touch the nape of my neck, your fingers intertwined with my curls, and that’s how I figured you like to take things slow. Your mouth tasted like sour tangerines and then, you pushed me away, coughing, spitting, asking:

“Do you drink _everyday?”_ And that's how you learned you loathed alcohol; not for the way it left you unable to think and distorted reality but for the way it tasted bitter in my mouth. I've never seen you lift a glass after that.

“Got a problem?”

 _“Yes.”_ You rasped, covering your mouth as for protection. “You bit my _lip_. I thought-” I roared; shoulders shaking with mirth as you set your jaw and muscles pull taut. You were close to running, I saw, so I made a grab for you.

You had the nerve to throw accusatory words darted towards me, telling me that it was _“wrong”_ but your eyes couldn't find a reason as to why. You avoided me like the black plague for three long weeks. And when you returned, you gave a vague answer from the code of moral ethics (from Voltaire you said? Or was it Locke?)

“Social contract,” you said with no further elaboration. A vast stretch, really.

 

VIII.

 

However you may embark around this, I’m not changing my mind. I don’t care if I’m ruining this coup d'etat you're rallying up. These men are fools for listening to you talk and following you over to rebellion like warriors of God. There must be some level of sanity left in you _._ _This is France you are against._ And it is more than clear that you are suicidal, charismatic, _terrible_ , and all the other omens point to you as the tragic martyr in this travesty.

It consumes our daily lives and you like to act as my therapist, prying open my rib cage to find out why I drink so much. “It’s your lack of faith,” you say, unbuttoning my dress shirt. I’m sober now, and you won’t let me reach for the glass bottle. I scoff.

“You want me to remember this?” I let out something like half a gasp and laugh and your fingers pause at the last button to lift your eyes onto mine, searching. _“Enjolras"_

“You-” A quizzical look, you’re blinking madly and put some space between us. “You don’t..” Mistake. You look hurt. I’m overwhelmed by your tenderness so instead of words, I meet your mouth and on some level maybe I do like kissing sober more than drunk. And there we are, secluded in a dusty, old room the day before you decide life is only worth living if it plays by your rules. If I had known sooner… I think as we are drawn close with your hands in my hair, if I had known sooner, I’d have prepared myself to let you go. I discard that wine colored jacket since it taunts me and all I’ll ever think for the rest of my ungodly life is in red. You pause and part. You close your eyes like you’re trying to remember something.

“Do you want-” a convenient cough, “-to do this?” I thought I made it clear. Maybe you just want to hear it in my voice. But because I’m hard, I withdraw all my quips.

“Yes.” Your eyes open wide, searching again.

“Don’t joke. Not with me. If this is another one of your ideas for a story to tell. I want no part in it.”

“I mean it.” My hands are locked around your waist and I tug you down. You fall into the junction of my collarbone and neck, gold hair and heat hazing over skin and you gasp at the feel, breathing steady and heavy like you're trying to control yourself. “Actually… I’ve been wanting this.” I add offhandedly and you press a hot kiss to my neck.

“It's mutual.” You eventually say.

 

IX.

 

Watch future generations reimagine you in their oil paintings as their fallen savior and forget your name. But you wouldn’t even mind the latter. What bewilders me the most is that you welcome it with open arms. You’d risk despite it all.

You radiate more light & ambition than my eyes can handle and call for more action. And sometimes I wonder if  I were to go blind with it. I did once. Twice. We laid there in quiet, and I liked kissing your collarbone and hearing you make sounds nonexistent in our vocabulary. I liked making jokes about it as well when our men spoke of women and I, conveniently leaving out the pronouns, spoke of you.

That earned me a scowl and several nights alone.

 

X.

 

You once (incessantly actually in my skull) told me that you were trying to help me. That by the time I've reached old age I'd have children of my own, becoming unable to enjoy life's pleasures in the world twenty-thirty years from now, like I once did and took for granted, (like you have ever known pleasure) and that I'd regret having no legacy to leave behind. You never once before spoke of children (I figured the reason why) and my throat still has this hollow sound like laughter just thinking about it.

You.

You never planned to live past your youth, did you? And yet, yet you speak of a utopian future so vibrantly. One that you’ll never live to see. _Do you even believe in God?_ You’ve always skipped the sermons and criticized the church and I can’t believe I’m worried for your salvation. You certainly don’t fear Him. You’re always selfless for the wellbeing of others (including someone like me) and maybe your father was right to strike you down before it got out of hand. But that didn’t work.

I never thought I’d die before the National Guard, and I admit, I did not have much to live for anyways. After you were gone, I did not plan to live and see France fall into ruin without someone like you. You’d rather die than see that occur and when I envisioned my future in the past always, always I saw you; there with same fiery hope for a beautiful France. Watching you stirred dusts of disdain; soaring faith and leaving me in withering doubt for the rest of my life. In some ways, I prayed you'd succeed, grasping onto that pipe dream and breaking the stone walled boundaries with the hearts of desperate people.

I didn’t recognize how transient it was. You were just a candle who refused to be snuffed out until the storm came. I woke up to the sound of armed puppets striking the dry, wooden steps, the sound fades rushing up. I groggily shook out of that hangover and followed. Hours have passed, the sun descends towards the horizon and night will soon fall. I feel my stomach turn over as I pass the guards, I see red, but the dim look on your face throws me off.

I stagger.

That’s how I know the Judgement Day is soon. Maybe you did plan to live and see your efforts come alive and not in vain at the very least. You glare at me, something that says, _Are you here to mock me? *Pour dire que tu avais raison tout ce temps? Blam_ _e the carnage on me?_ It wounds me that you think so low of me while I think so highly of you. The light is flickering again. The guards all have their eyes fixed on you, the leader of the rebellion. They have you cornered on the edge of defeat and destruction.

“Take aim!”

And I’m on my feet again.

 _“Vive la Republique!”_ I bellow, “Count me in!” I can imagine the scowls planted on their faces but a last request is due. _“Viva la Republique,”_ I repeat a pinch lower, “Two at one shot,” and I turn towards you. My throat feels sore. The bitter taste of alcohol is still there.

And you’re smiling.

“Will you permit it?”

The last few seconds of silence is torturous, but the sun is still out and you take my hand despite all the grime. It’s then, I realize, that the lackluster flame I once loved to watch isn’t extinguished. It soars higher still. You look at me with quiet euphoria as we stand side by side. It occurs to me then that the only reason you’ve reached for my hand is because you think I’m a believer (for all the wrong reasons.) Rifles are aimed at us both and the only difference between us now is why we’re martyrs. Or maybe you realized why I stuck around for those meetings. The distance between us doesn’t seem as far away. In fact, we are probably one soul.

_But that never got through to you,_

_I've never lied for anyone before,_

_And the shot is heard with red flooding our eyes and bodily collapse._

**Author's Note:**

> * To say that you were right all along? in French
> 
> Thanks for reading :')


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